


if i bleed, you'll be the first to know

by honeyastral (hiraethseok)



Series: If I Bleed Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brat Sam Winchester, Cock Slapping, Dirty Talk, Dom Dean Winchester, Feminization, Gang Leader Dean Winchester, Incest Kink, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Wears Panties, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Sub Sam Winchester, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Twink Sam Winchester, cas shows up briefly at the end, how is that not a tag smh, this is filthy oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethseok/pseuds/honeyastral
Summary: "C'mon, sweetheart," Dean murmurs, nosing at his cheek. "Up you go.""What're you doing?" Curious bastard, even as he obeys and clambers onto the table, spreading his legs all pliant to fit Dean in the space between them. Dean hums and falls into his mouth, swallows down his muffled noise and presses into it, licking at the seam of his lips to coax them open. Sam parts them with a sigh, lets Dean right in."Good girl," he laughs, a little dazed, and Sam smiles faintly and kisses him again.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: If I Bleed Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666555
Comments: 10
Kudos: 292





	if i bleed, you'll be the first to know

**Author's Note:**

> my hand slipped and i wrote this. whoops?
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated!

-

Dean looks up as the door creaks open, curling his lips into a smirk at the sight of Sam peering into the room, cheeks pink and hair messy. He steps inside hesitantly and the smile vanishes, melting away like cotton candy in the rain. 

Dean stands, chair screeching under him, and Sam doesn't flinch -- he never flinches around Dean, not anymore -- but he pouts and hangs his head, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. 

Dean floats to his side; he can’t remember how he gets there, can't remember why it matters. 

Dean lifts his chin with a finger, softens the rough edges of his glare into something butter-soft, staring into Sam's big hazel eyes. Sam looks back, purses his lips. His fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt, and he would be the picture perfect image of innocence -- he has been since _forever_ \-- except.

Except. 

"Sammy." Sam looks away, slowly tugging his bottom lip under his teeth. Dean thumbs at the grooves where his dimples are, pressing in with a frown. 

"Whose blood is this?"

Sam shrugs a shoulder, doesn't answer, but there's blood on his baby brother's shirt and Dean can't have silence as an answer, not this time. Not now. 

"Sam."

Sam mumbles something under his breath, quiet enough that even Dean has to strain to hear. 

" _Sam_ ," he repeats, heavier.

"It's not just mine," Sam says, quick and snappish, testy like only Sam's ever been able to get away with around him. He pulls away weakly, but Dean grips his shoulder and tugs him back, all the way to his chest, burrowing his nose in Sam's skull and inhaling the soft perfume of flowers and caffeine. 

Sam shakes in his arms, and it's only when Dean presses his lips to the top of his head that Sam lets go of himself and sinks into it, breathing so light that Dean pulls him closer just to hear the thud of his heartbeat. 

"What happened?" 

"A few guys jumped me." Sam plucks absently at a loose string on his shirt. "They, uh, said some things to me. About us." 

Dean's eyes flash, going a little distant. Sam hesitates but Dean pulls back and knocks their foreheads together, urges him on with his lips pressed in a tight line. Sam takes a breath. 

"They told me I was just your slut, and that I was no better than you were; that I was an idiot and a psychopath for wanting to be around you." Sam scoffs bitterly, like it’s somehow funny. 

Dean's heard a lot of shit in his years as a gang leader -- it kind of comes with the gig -- but he has no coherent reasoning for why his mind goes white-hot blank with everything except pure, unrelenting _heat_ , coursing through every vein and forcing his entire body to tense up tight like he might explode if he so much as thinks wrong. 

"I'm going to fucking kill them," he snarls, tears back from Sam and paces the floor, running a jerky hand through his hair. He has half a mind to wreck the room. "I'm going to make it slow, and painful, and they're going to be begging to grovel at your feet for this, I swear to God, Sam--"

"Dean."

And Dean stops, turns sharply, staring a little wild-eyed at Sam, who's shivering and shrinking into himself, fisting at his t-shirt. 

It's like taking a dunk in cold water. Dean barely feels himself cross the room, just wraps himself around Sam and pulls him so close he can't bring himself to think about those assholes again. Sam goes willingly, lets go of his shirt and grabs Dean's instead, gathering up the fabric on his back to hold him there. 

"Stay," Sam whispers. "Please don't leave me."

"Wouldn't dream of it, baby girl," he swears, and Sam whimpers so prettily at the pet name, lifting off his chest to turn his glittering eyes on him, tracing his freckles and his lips and, when has Dean ever been able to deny Sam anything, really?

"C'mon, sweetheart," Dean murmurs, nosing at his cheek. "Up you go."

"What're you doing?" Curious bastard, even as he obeys and clambers onto the table, spreading his legs all pliant to fit Dean in the space between them. Dean hums and falls into his mouth, swallows down his muffled noise and presses into it, licking at the seam of his lips to coax them open. Sam parts them with a sigh, lets Dean right in. 

"Good girl," he laughs, a little dazed, and Sam smiles faintly and kisses him again. 

"Stay still for me, yeah?" Dean drops to his knees, places a hand on each of Sam's kneecaps and spreads him open further, just stares at the barely-there bulge between Sam's thighs, traces the curves of his legs and the jut of his hip bones until Sam squirms and huffs in annoyance. 

"Don't look at me like that," he mumbles, flushed. 

"Can't help it," Dean says. "So goddamn _pretty_ , Sammy, all the damn time."

" _Dean_." It comes out in a whine, and Dean feels Sam's muscles jump under his palms. "Can you..." 

He trails off, chews at his bottom lip, and Dean squeezes his thighs, rubs them soothingly. 

"You can tell me anything. I'll do it."

"Can you call me a slut?" he blurts out. "I hate the way they said it, like I'm dirty, and Dean, I just. I need it. Please."

"Sammy," he whispers, heart cracking. "Anything for you, baby, you know that." And he rises to his feet just to kiss Sam again, soft and gentle and so, so careful; the calm before the storm. 

He pulls back and smiles, trailing his fingers up Sam's thighs to settle low around his waist. 

"Baby girl wants to be treated rough?" Sam mewls, breathes a little faster, nods his pretty head. Dean barrels on, wanting; needing to see, hear, feel Sam lose it. 

"Wanna hear how you belong to me and me alone? How," he drags his fingertips across Sam's lower back, draws out a little sigh, "How I've never been buried in a pussy better than this one?"

" _Dean_." Sam wriggles impatiently. Dean shoves a hand up his shirt and then into his pants, moans against Sam's ear as his palm brushes silk and pulls, smooth, across the plush give of Sam's ass. 

"Gonna be a good girl for me?" he asks, the edge of a growl clipping it short. "Gonna give it up like a good little whore?"

"Yes," Sam breathes, tugs at his shirt. "Please, sir, I--"

"Get off the table and show me that pretty ass." 

Sam scrambles to obey, hits the ground a little wobbly and bends over just like that, chest flat on the table, ass pushed out all perky and tight. Dean's mouth waters. 

"Good girl," he says, and then he falls to his knees again, kneads at the globes of Sam's ass with both hands. He reaches around to undo Sam's jeans, pulls them down and lets them drop to his ankles, and then he groans and bites at Sam's ass through the maroon silk hiding away sweet, pale skin. 

It's vaguely lacy, mostly satin, and hugs at his curves in all the prettiest places. Dean cups his hip, rubs over the spit-soaked circle he leaves behind. He glides his hand down, hooks the fabric with a finger and pulls, going a little dizzy at the whine Sam lets out. 

Sam's hole is so _pink_ , winking and shining with what looks like lube. Dean goes hot, arousal shooting through him like a gunshot, and the images of his baby brother stuffing himself full to bring himself off are nothing less than pornographic. 

"Little slut couldn't even wait," he says, incredulous, like he's surprised that Sam's utterly insatiable. "Had to have something fill you up, huh? Maybe I should plug you up more often; keep you all open and sloppy for me so I can just tug your panties down and fuck you whenever I want."

"Jesus," Sam gasps, rolls his hips back into Dean's hands. " _Please_."

"Patience." Dean holds his panties aside, presses a thumb against Sam's hole and rubs little circles around it. Sam squirms, and Dean stops to land a harsh slap on his ass, savoring the jerk of Sam's body and the muffled whimper. 

"Stay still," he hisses. "Needy whore."

"More," Sam demands, just a little slurred. "Fuck, hit me again." Dean shudders, feels his cock throb in his jeans, and he tugs down Sam's panties. 

The place he’d just hit glows pink, and when he rubs a palm over it, it's warmer than the rest of him. Sam grunts into it, too, and that's more than enough incentive for Dean to rear back and slap him again. 

It's hard to stop once he starts, and Sam doesn't make it any easier with the way he arches and backs up into it, goddamn _presenting_ like he can't get enough of getting his ass spanked, and then Dean catches a flash of his red-tipped cock hanging between his legs and he gets an idea. 

"Spread your legs," he says. Sam blinks, a little slow, but shuffles his feet apart, stretches onto his tiptoes to give Dean a better view, and Jesus _fucking_ Christ. 

His ass is red, burning to the touch, and his cock is almost as dark and twice as wet, glistening at the tip with the pool of precome leaking out. It dangles between his shaking legs, and Dean's absolutely aching with how much he _wants._

"Tell me to stop if this hurts too much," he whispers, just before he pushes his four fingers together and takes a sharp swing at Sam's cock, and Sam reacts like he's been shocked with a live wire. 

Sam doesn't tell him to stop. He moans and arches up; gives him easier access, thighs shaking. 

"Harder." Sam scowls. "C'mon, make it _hurt_."

Dean swears under his breath, pushes Sam's lower back into the table with a rough shove and puts more force behind his next slap, alternating between his ass and his cock, and he can't feel anything but the scorching heat bubbling up under Sam's skin and the meat of his palm.

Sam’s cock is drooling precome, dripping onto the floor in thick globs, and it sends a sharp flash of arousal through Dean’s groin seeing how much he's getting off on this, how he’s pushing back into it, gasping so prettily as his ass blooms red.

He jolts away every time Dean delivers a stinging slap to his cock, knees knocking together, but he always straightens back out again, spreads his legs to give Dean a clear view and a clear shot, and it’s way hotter than it should be that Sam likes getting his _dick_ spanked pink, too.

"Jesus _fuck._ " Sam cants his hips into Dean's next swing, and Dean can see the jerk-pulse of precome leak out of his prick. "Dean, sir, 'm gonna--"

Dean stops, eases off and soothes over his ass with careful strokes of his hand. He lets go of his crushing grip when Sam curses loudly and glares at him, effect only slightly ruined by the wild sex-crazed glimmer in his eyes. 

"Why the hell did you stop?"

"You're only allowed to come after I have." Dean thumbs across his asscheek. "Gotta wait for it, baby girl."

"Fuck me, then," Sam begs. "Please, De."

"Ask me right," Dean says. Sam goes red, a matching set with his throbbing ass, and he looks so goddamn sinful like this, looks good enough to fuck. 

Dean growls, squeezes his ass hard, and then he parts his cheeks and trails a finger across his hole. He sinks one in, slow, hears the wet squelch of lube follow it as he pushes in knuckle after knuckle. Sam swallows him up, cock-hungry. 

Dean pulls back, feeds in another, and he does it again before Sam shoves back into it and snarls. 

"Fucking hell-- Dean, fuck me!"

"Ask me right," he repeats, calm.

Sam, cheeks burning, lets the brattiness finally slip away, melting back onto the table. His lips are bitten bloody, and Dean watches him spread his legs impossibly further, just enough to twinge at his muscles, but that's just how Sammy likes it, all stretched thin and scraped raw.

He’s trembling when he finally says it, flushed with embarrassment and arousal and, _fuck_ , Dean’s not gonna last long at all. 

"P-please fuck my pussy, big brother." 

There's a little waver at the end that digs into Dean's gut and pushes at every single fucked up button he has, makes him tug his fingers out and scramble to undo his jeans, shove his boxers down with them. He curls his lube-wet fingers around his hard cock and tugs, dragging copious precome up and down his shaft. 

"Good girl," he whispers, hoarse. "My good little whore." And then he steps close and fits his hips against Sam's, slowly feeds him his cock, watches it all disappear into Sam's body and push out little answering whimpers. 

"Look at that," he says, awed. "Little pussy's so tight around my dick, baby. Just sank right in." Sam moans, clenches down. He wriggles around, rolls his hips helplessly back, whines low in his throat. His ass is burning where it's pressed against Dean’s skin. 

"Dean," he breathes, and he's so fucking out of it, head lolling back like he's drunk or high or both. Dean fucks him slow at first, drags the length of his cock all up inside him, makes him feel every inch, and then he speeds up, angles his thrusts to search out that one spot that makes his brother sing. 

Sam cries out and goes rigid when Dean slams into it, and then rocks back onto his cock, syncing up with his rhythm, panting. 

"Fuck," Sam sobs. " _Fuck_ , Dean."

"Touch your clit," Dean orders, breathless. "Wanna see you come for me." 

Sam's hand slides down his stomach, fingers frantically wrapping around just the tip of his cock and rubbing in a shaky back and forth motion, and it's thoughts like _shit, he's pretending it's an actual clit_ that make Dean bend double and groan loudly into Sam's shoulder blades, biting down at the skin there as he ruts forward and comes, fucking it deep into Sam. 

Sam wails and follows him, ass going tight around Dean's softening cock, come spilling in spurts from his slit, but Dean doesn't pull out, doesn't _dare_ , just breathes and feels it when Sam clenches around him hard and then slackens, falling limp onto the table. 

They don't move for a while, chests heaving, completely spent. Then, Dean slowly pulls out, wincing at the little whine Sam lets out, but then he rolls him over and plants kisses all over his face, rubbing loose hands all over Sam's torso, dipping down to rest his palms on Sam's sore ass. 

"Holy fuck," Sam says eventually. Dean chuckles, noses at his neck. He kisses his collarbone, suckles a little at it, but there's no heat behind his ministrations, not anymore. Sam just hums and tilts his head back, lets Dean come down from it too. 

"Was that okay?" Dean asks. Sam snorts, eyes heavy-lidded. 

"It was perfect," he says. "Thank you."

“I’ll get you lotion in a little bit, yeah?” 

Sam nods, a little distracted, so Dean laves over the bites with a hot tongue, soothing the sting. 

"You're not dirty, y'know," Dean adds, eyebrows furrowed like they get when he's bothered. "I don't care what those assholes believe. You're mine, I'm yours, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with us, Sammy." He bites down, nibbles at his thin flesh, drinks down Sam's sigh. 

"You're the best of us, Sam," Dean whispers into his neck. "The best the world has to offer."

"Love you," Sam says, and his eyes brighten like he means it, like he needs Dean to hear it. "I love you so much, De, you have no idea."

Dean smiles, rubs a palm over Sam's ass again, and he's never felt this peaceful in his entire life.

"Love you more," he says, and he knows it's selfish when he prays it's not true.

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  


_"Sir?"_

"Cas," Dean greets, smiles at the ceiling with Sam laying warm on his chest. "I got a job for you."

_"Name it and it will be done."_

Dean casts a glance at his brother, watches the soft snores leave his pink lips. He looks so much younger like this, all curved edges and peach flush, hair fanning out over Dean's chest, and Dean tightens his grip, just a little, on both his baby and the phone. 

"I'm texting the coordinates now," he murmurs absently. "Oh, and Cas?"

_"Yes, Dean?"_

"Make it hurt."

Silence. 

Comprehension. Acceptance. 

_"Consider it done."_

Dean hangs up and sends him the text, and then tosses his phone on the pillow and pulls Sam closer, inhaling the scent of his shampoo and letting the warm lull of his brother soothe him to sleep. 

He doesn't tell Sam when he gets Castiel's confirmation text a few hours later, and when he catches Sam fingering at the faint bruise on his collarbone, he decides not to tell him at all. 

Sam's the best thing to happen to him, and Dean knows he'd rather run the world in blood than let him go. His brother knows that already.

It might just be pure, dumb luck that Sam gets off on it, too.

-


End file.
